


Let's Talk About You and Me

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Kink, NSFW, Smut, Spanking, Tumblr prompt memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompts, NSFW version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:Emily & Aaron, "own me"
> 
> WARNINGS: spanking, domination.

"Are you mine?" he asks, voice low and dark in ear. She whimpers holding as still as she can because she hasn’t been told she can move but dear God she really needs to just come, she does, but he hasn’t said yes and-

"Don’t make me ask again." His words are accompanied by a stinging slap to her ass that has her gasping. 

"Yes," she manages. "Yes sir. I’m yours, so yours, always yours."

She gets like this when she’s that close, rambles on and on when she has to give an answer until he gives her something else. This time, it’s his thumb on her clit, rubbing in insistent circles and Jesus, he needs to give her permission soon or she’s going to just come. She’ll be in so much trouble, she knows, but there’s nothing for it. 

"Please," she gasps. "Please sir. Please let me come. I’m yours. Always. Please, please, please-"

"Come." 

She does, clenching hard around his fingers and keening to hell and high heaven because being vocal is one of her rules. 

And she always follows the rules.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:Dominate me: Hotch dominates Prentiss

She knows what’s coming long before they step through the door of his apartment. She’s been gone a very long time and she can see the heat in his eyes. It’s not her fault, the Doyle thing, but she’s back now, stateside and she can see how much he wants her. 

"Get undressed."

Oh. 

She shivers. She knows that voice, is intimately familiar with that voice, loves that voice. It’s also a voice she doesn’t disobey and she kicks off her shoes first, stepping back slowly. She knows where his bedroom is, is well acquainted with the layout of his apartment. She starts on the buttons of her shirt next, sliding one after the other out of their holes until she knows her bra is exposed to him. 

His eyes are dark as he watches her, as he follows her every movement with his eyes. She pulls the shirt over her head, loses his eyes for a moment and relishes the way her hair drops and brushes along her bare skin as she tosses her shirt to the floor. He advances on her then, follows her every step back with one of his own. He gets his hand on her waist, slides it down and around until he has her ass in his hand. 

"I’m going to have you, Emily. Any way I want you."

She nods, knows she doesn’t have to. They’ve played this game before and she feels the dampness of her panties between her thighs. He’s good at this, she’d discovered. It’s an absolute thrill that he can take control of her like this, that his voice alone makes her want to do whatever he asks. 

He steps back once they’re in the bedroom though, nods to her leggings. She wastes no time, doesn’t care that they’re inside out as she yanks them off. It’s not about that anyway because when she looks up, he’s pulling over the armchair from the corner (that had been her insistence, because he looks weird watching her from the end of the bed without it). Her breath catches, because she knows what’s coming next and preempts his next order by dropping her bra and panties to the floor. 

"Oh look at you," he breathes, voice dark. He steps towards her and cups a breast in his palm, gets his thumb over her scar. It makes her shiver, makes her head tilt back. She’s at his mercy, they both know. He doesn’t have to tie her up to control her. Maybe later though. 

"So very pretty," he says and she moans. He hums his response, wordless heat as his hand trails down her side. Her legs spread automatically because she damn well remembers how he likes her (couldn’t stop remembering during all of those cold months in Paris) and his hand cups her center, pressing in until he’s opening her up, feeling just how wet she is. 

"Oh, you good girl," he murmurs. "You remember, don’t you. That you’re mine. That you’re always ready for me."

She has never failed him in that regard, never not been ready for him when he wants her. She moans as he presses in, her breath coming in short pants as he spreads her wetness around her clit. 

"My good girl," he murmurs, ignoring her whine when he pulls his hand away. "On the bed, Emily," he tells her. "You’re going to make yourself come for me."

Shit. 

But she climbs eagerly onto his bed, positions herself on her back and spreads her legs wide. She expects him to settle himself in the armchair, but that’s not quite how it works. He moves behind it instead, starts slowly shedding his clothes. 

"Go," he orders. "Touch yourself, Emily. Make yourself come and we’ll see if that’s enough to get you my cock."

Her head falls back with a moan and she knows she’s wet enough for two fingers. Sure enough, they slide in easily and she doesn’t hesitate. If he wants to hear her scream she’s not going to draw it out and there isn’t a person in the world that knows her body like she does. She gets the pads of her fingers against her g-spot, her palm against her clit and it takes less than ten minutes to have her screaming to hell and high heaven. 

"Good girl," he murmurs when she floats down, finds him spread over her. He removes her hand and replaces it with his own, his fingers ghosting over her clit. Her hips arch because she’s still sensitive, but her hands come up to thread through his hair. She doesn’t get to control this, doesn’t get to choose this and that includes stopping him. 

He does know her body though and he’s patient as he finds the right way to press inside her, the right pressure and timing for his fingers on her clit. He finally kisses her, his tongue plundering her mouth while his fingers fuck her into her second orgasm. 

"Shit," she manages. "Aaron. Aaron please. Please, please, please, please."

He shushes her, pets at her hair as he sucks the taste of her from his fingers. “Patience.”

Except it turns out he’s no more patient than she is and once he’s cleaned his fingers, he lines himself up with her entrance. He isn’t gentle as he slides inside, and she makes a keening moaning sound as he stretches her. He doesn’t give her time to adjust either, but starts up a slow, hard, steady rhythm that has her breath catching on each inward thrust. 

"Don’t you dare come," he tells her, nips at her ear, her jaw and her neck. "Not without permission, do you hear me?" 

She nods, can’t make words work. It’s enough (sometimes he makes her say it, makes her push past the pleasure) and he drops his face into her neck. He leaves marks all along the side of her neck (it’s a possession that leaves her soaking wet for days, until they fade) down her collarbone while each thrust, each bite of his teeth, pushes her just a little bit higher each time. It takes less time than she’d like to hover at that edge, her body begging his while she moans and keens with his every touch. 

"Not yet," he tells her. "Don’t you come yet, sweetheart."

"Please," she gasps. "Please can I?"

"No."

He holds her on that edge for what feels like endless moments, every push against her glorious, every twist of his hips pressing against her clit just right and it takes all of her concentration to keep herself from flying. 

"Oh look at you, my pretty girl. My good girl."

He needs to stop and she whimpers, her hands clenching on his shoulders. 

"Please," she begs. 

He hums, but it isn’t permission. 

"Please, please, please, please." 

His hand comes up, presses against her mouth. “Not until I’m ready.”

She isn’t sure how much longer she can hold on though, arches against his every thrust, moaning and whining. 

"Ready?" he asks, his own voice wrecked. "Are you ready to come for me, Emily?" 

She nods beneath his hand, needs to come more than she needs to breathe. 

"I’m going to touch you," he tells her. "I’m going to touch you and you’re going to come around my cock, screaming my name."

She nods frantically. She’s perched on the edge, ready to fall at his smallest command. She feels him squeeze his hand between them, gasps as his fingers press against her, circling puposefully. 

"Come." 

She does and she screams his name as she clenches and flutters around his cock. Her vision whites out and her lungs struggle to pull in air as the orgasm overtakes her. 

When she finally floats down, he’s stroking her hair, his own body limp. 

"Holy shit, Hotch."

He chuckles into her ear, everything about him gentle now. “Welcome home.”

She kisses him now, settles into the feel of him, tries to make her body work. She is so very glad to be back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> detectiverumskey asked:Aaron Hotchner. Emily Prentiss. Suck me.
> 
> Suck Me: my character will suck on any body part of your character

"That was pretty damn reckless, Aaron."

She’s leaning against his door, hands in her pockets and looks, for all intents and purposes, the picture of nonchalance. But he knows better. He can read the nuances of her face, even with the way the shadows of his office play across her skin. 

She is pissed. 

He gets it, in a kind of abstract sense. After AJ she’s gotten a bit more anal about the risks he takes on the job (she doesn’t, really, opts to go behind into dangerous situations and only does undercovers if she can be reassured she’ll come out the other side. She’s anal about not leaving the kids without a parent) but he’s also the SSIAC. There are certain risks that come with that title. 

"Emily-"

"Please don’t."

Oh.

Oh, that’s not pissed. She’s distressed. Genuinely distressed and he stands to come around the desk. She closes the door and they meet in the middle as she tucks herself beneath his chin. It’s not his favourite type of hug, his arms around her shoulders as she burrows in, but she’s clutching him so tight that he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

"Hey, sweetheart. Emily, hey."

"Hey yourself." But the sniffle at the end takes away from her sarcastic tone, the snappy way she’s telling him to just stop. 

Even so, Hotch gets his hand on her cheek, cups her face. Her eyes are so dark, distress changing to heat. It’s not an unfamiliar shift for either of them (he’s pretty sure that’s how Katie was conceived, actually), and neither of them are strangers to reaffirmation sex but they’re in his damn office. 

"Sweetheart, not here."

"Here," she argues, pushing closer, tilting her head up. 

He obliges her, can’t say no when she wants to kiss him, and tries to gentle the desperate way her mouth claims his. “Emily,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “Sweetheart-“

His thumb slides across her swollen bottom lip and his tongue comes out to lick at the tip. His breath catches and her eyes go black as she slowly and carefully pulls his thumb between her lips. She sucks, just gently, but it’s enough for him to crowd closer. She smirks around his thumb and starts sucking in earnest. 

"Sweetheart." That’s not his voice. It’s too low, too close to a growl for the office (because they’re usually so much better about these kind of displays in the office), and Emily takes it as encouragement. Her tongue swirls around his thumb and he groans, pulling it from her mouth so he can kiss her. 

Her hands come up now, slide to the collar of his shirt, but he catches her wrists, pulls them away from him. 

"Not here," he repeats, even as he leans in. She whimpers into the kiss but he refuses to let her dominate the kiss. Instead, he works at her lips, makes her slow down. The kiss ends naturally and they’re both panting. 

"Get your stuff," he says. "Let’s go home."

Her eyes light up and that smirk comes back, stretching playfully across her face. “First one to the car gets to be on top?”

It’s his turn to grin, though his is more predatory than victorious. “Oh no, sweetheart.”

Her breath catches, then releases on a hum and she adds just a little more sway to her hips as she walks out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:Love Me Hotch/Em
> 
> Love Me: my character will express their love of yours (romantic, platonic, or sexual)

She gasps, rocking above him, every push of her hips pressing her clit against his hipbone in the most delicious ways. She’s climbing ever higher, pushing herself closer and closer but she can’t seem to just get there. 

"Emily."

She looks down, locks her eyes on his because his face is always so expressive when he’s close, when he’s watching her. 

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, gets his hands on her hips. But even that extra pressure, the little extra push every time she bears down on him isn’t enough. She whines, wants her orgasm more than she wants to breathe. Her head tips back with it, with that need. 

"I love you."

Her head snaps down, finds his face. Pleasure and earnestness in his eyes, that adoration all over his face. It’s not a unique look, it’s one she’s familiar with and has figured out a long time ago, but this is the first time he’s said the words. 

"I love you," he says again. "Emily, I-"

And she’s gone, exploding around him with a sob. Her hips still but she feels him come too and she braces her hands on his chest. But it’s not enough and a moment later she collapses into his chest, whole body limp.

"Aaron."

He hums, strokes along her back. “I love you,” he tells her again, because he knows what she’s asking. “Of course I love you.”

Her smile has nothing to do with the languid pleasure still sliding through her veins. “I love you, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:bind me!! hotch/em
> 
> Bind Me: my character will tie yours up. Be it rope, silk, leather, chains our whatever strikes your fancy

He checks the knots again, swallows thickly. He’s nervous if he’s honest, can’t believe that they’ve come to this point. But as he looks down to the woman, absolutely bare beneath him, he sees how dark her eyes are, the flush that’s already creeping across her face and down her chest. 

She wants this. 

Still. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes." Her voice has that breathless quality to it that tells him she’s already half way there, she’s already feeling it. 

"Emily."

"Aaron." It’s a moan though, one that’s low and thick and he echoes it. 

God, he’d never known this would get her so hot. 

(She’d been nervous to ask, lulled him into the greatest sense of relaxation after a bath and slow sex one night when it was just them. She’d dropped it on him post-orgasm and with her naked and, well. 

Thinks had progressed from there.

He’s still nervous. So very nervous.)

"Safeword?"

She takes a breath, releases it slowly. He wonders if she’s trying to settle herself down. “Viper.”

He winces. Still. Can’t help it. “Okay.”

He starts slow. He has to. He’s used to Emily participating, to the push and pull of mutual pleasure. It takes him a while to realize that his mouth against her neck, down her chest, the way her body arches under his as he takes a nipple in his mouth is it’s own kind of pleasure. She can’t slide her fingers into his hair, can’t dig her nails into the back of his neck. But he can smell her, can definitely taste her beneath his tongue. It’s a different kind of thrill that he’s completely at the mercy of what he wants to do. 

Her back arches so beautifully as he trails his mouth down the quivering muscles of her stomach, as he gets his shoulders between her thighs to hold her open. He slides his fingers into her heat, spreads her wetness around and around. She squirms and arches (he has to rest an arm against her hips to keep her still), moans nice and loud as his tongue joins the party. He loves the way she gasps and moans, the sounds she doesn’t hide. It doesn’t take long to have her screaming. 

"Look at you," he says as he kisses his way up her body. He sucks a hickey just below her rib (because he can and because he loves the idea of both of them knowing). "You love this."

She moans and nods as his kisses slide between her breasts, as his tongue licks at the hollow of her collarbone. He kisses her then, sloppy and dirty and she groans as she tastes herself on his tongue. Her eyes are glazed when they flutter open and he gasps. The colour swirls deep. So does the pleasure. 

(He never expected to like it, the way she has to kind of struggle to get what she wants. She’s a demanding bed partner, his Emily, can take what she wants as well as she can give him what he needs. They’re good like that.

It’s what made him want to do this for her.)

Even so, it’s not perfect, so he reaches up and slips the knots free, rubs at her wrists for a moment. She doesn’t move, stays spread around him so he nibbles at her ear as he wraps her arms around his neck, slides one of her thighs around his hips. 

He wastes no time sliding into her, one smooth thrust because holy shit she’s soaked. 

"Aaron."

"Emily," he groans back, his face still buried in her throat. "Sweetheart."

She gets her mouth on his jaw, nibbles, licks and sucks and he’s going to have a hell of a mark there in the morning that won’t be near as easy to hide as hers. The first one, anyway, because he sucks a few more into the delicate skin of her throat in retaliation. As he does though he pushes into her with a hard, strong rhythm. It’s exactly how she likes it, sliding her body up the bed with every thrust. Every push gets a squeak, this high noise that’s just too short to be a keen and he loves it. 

God, he loves her. 

"Emily. Emily God. You’re perfect, sweetheart. Come on."

She moans, arches her back, clenches her legs and arms. He barely has enough room to move, to push into her and he thinks maybe that’s the point, that he’s hitting her g-spot with every thrust. 

"There you are," he breathes. "Right there. Look at you."

Her second orgasm is almost quieter, her body shaking and trembling as she takes him over the edge with her.


	6. Partners in Crime AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meadowundertown asked: Hotchniss. 11 - partners in crime au

Her skin is sticky with sweat beneath his tongue and he can still smell the gunpowder in her hair. The leather curls around her, snug and tight where he can feel the muscles bunching beneath his palms, jumping into his touch. She moans, one hand coming up to his hair and the other – the one with the damn keycard to their thousand-dollar room, paid for in cash from their latest job – dropping to her side.

“Don’t you dare, or I’ll take you in this hallway,” he growls into her ear, sets his teeth into her neck.

She jolts, gasps. He groans into her skin, fingers digging into her hips. How many years have they been doing this and he’s only now discovering that voyeurism turns her on? Shit. He will never figure out his wife.

It doesn’t matter though. That’s the best part, the consistent changes, never knowing what’s coming next. This time, it was the good guys, an arms dealer with a half a million dollar bounty on his next. Next time maybe it’ll be a staid business rival and they’ll get to go to some fancy party instead of a dusty warehouse. Not that he’s against the warehouse, really. It’s a little gross but he’s seen her all but bend herself in half and take four men down without feeling like he had to step in and well…

Right now he doesn’t care about much at all.

So much so that he’s already inching her zipper down to slip his hand across her skin. His tongue is behind her ear, an erogenous zone that sends her knees collapsing beneath her. His arm tightens, the only think keeping her basically upright and he growls, low and deep.

“Get the damn door.”

His other hand wraps around hers, does most of the work for her since her eyelids are fluttering. He still vividly remembers the first time this happened, when he realized missions leave her hot and bothered, most especially when they’re with him. He remembers being exhausted, bleeding out of a shallow cut in his shoulder and not giving a flying fuck because this woman – a partner then, a beautiful, deadly partner – was all but climbing his chest.

She’d given him more bruises that night than the mission.

He’s brought back from the sight of her spread beneath him for the third, fourth, fifth orgasm that had rocked her to the core - and yet, she’d never give up – by the beep of the door giving beneath them. She spins immediately, uses the doorframe and her fucking amazing agility to get her legs around his waist. That’s going to be awkward in five minutes, but the way she’s kissing him, wet and open mouthed, completely trumps the lack of access her ‘uniform’ gives him.

He grunts as he cups her ass, already aware she’s not wearing anything beneath it. She hates being constricted on missions and he knows it’s going to come in handy.

The door slams behind them but he’s already lost in her, already tugging her cat suit apart, getting his hand between her skin and the leather, cupping a breast in his palm. He’s not gentle, but neither is she, biting at his ear, his chin, his bottom lip. He gives it back, presses her hard against the wall so he can tangle a hand in her hair, yank her head back. He wants his teeth on her throat, her neck, her collarbones. She mewls, tries to rock against him, but he’s got her hard and fast, pressing, pushing.

“Yes,” she says, as he bites at her skin, leaves angry red marks along side a couple of fingerprints he hadn’t noticed before. He’d been too busy reading the heat in her eyes and trying to keep them on the damn road. He growls, mouth going soft as he slides over them.

“Did you get him?”

“With a knife,” she says and he growls again. She is poetry in motion with a knife and he will never get over that.

“Soft later,” she’s already growling. “Come on, Hotch.”

“Can’t,” he tells her, hands slipping to her hips. “Down. Strip.”

They both do, too fast to bother with the tease of it. It’s functional at the moment because Jesus he just wants her. He’s done first – her suit is so damn tight she’s hopping on one foot trying to dislodge it from her calf, her ankle, and God, it is hot and adorable in equal measure – and prowls towards her. Her head comes up as she stumbles to keep her balance, but he’s already reaching for her, swinging her up into his arms. The dresser is closest and he drops her on it, already leaning down to get a nipple in his mouth.

She chokes on air, her hands threading through his hair and gripping tight enough to pull. He growls, looks up at her.

“Wait for me,” he tells her. “You’re going to wait, hear me?”

“Yes,” she chants, eyes so very, very dark. He’s got her, utterly and completely. “Yes, yes, yes.”

His hands slip in from her hips until he’s sliding through the heat of her and God, she’s going to have a hard time waiting. She is soaked and swollen and it makes him grin against her sternum. His mouth takes her other nipple, bites, revels in the keen she releases. Then she’s yanking on his hair, lifting his head, and he can see in her face the way she’s riding the sharp edge of it.

“You want me to wait, you get inside me.”

“Shit.”

Yeah. He may have her, but it’s completely mutual.

The dresser is just too tall and he lifts her down, slides her along his front just for the friction and the way her eyes flutter.

“Shit,” she breathes and then she’s shoving him back until he tumbles down into one of the hotel’s overstuffed chairs. She’s half way on his lap by the time he reaches for her, stunned and awed as he drinks in the look of her.

“Inside.”

Yeah, like he’s got a choice. She’s already straddling him, her hand wrapping around him. His hands grip her hips, almost bruising, not that she notices. There’s no preamble, no teasing, just the hot, wet slide of her down his length. They both groan as she sinks onto him until she can’t push any further. His hands release her hips to grip her ass, angling her just right to thrust up and into her.

He loves the way her breath catches when he does that, when he scrapes her clit along his pubic bone and sets his teeth to her breast again. Jesus he loves this, loves that in half an hour, when they’ve washed the mission off of them he’ll spread her out on the bed and worship her body, but that they both need this first. A hard fucking, adrenaline and energy buzzing beneath his skin and hers, feeding off each other. He can hear the breath hitching in her lungs, feel the way her nails dig into her shoulders and knows she’s riding that edge.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls around a breath. “Don’t you dare.”

She keens and ripples around the length of him, eyes glazing as she fights her climax. “Shit. Shit Hotch, please.”

He feels it low in his spine, feels it slide up his back. So, so close.

“Emily.”

Dark eyes, so dark and pleasured and needy.

“Now.”

She cries out as she comes, and he’s right there with her, his vision fogging at the edges before going dark. His heart beats in his head, the double thump the only thing he’s aware of for a few moments. She looks no better when he finally raises his head. She looks wrecked, a bit debauched and he grins as she meets his gaze.

“Fuck.”

Yeah.

She stretches like a cat with him still inside and he hisses, over-stimulated and sensitive. She chuckles as she lifts off of him slowly, yelping when she almost tumbles off the chair because she can’t catch her balance. He loves the look of her as she straightens, tests her legs.

“Come on, stud,” she says, throat just the right kind of raw. “Shower time. This gunpowder is sticking to me and I have dust in my ears.”

He takes her hand, lets her yank him up already grinning.

He can’t wait for their next mission.


	7. Chapter 7

Clandestine sex has never been a particular turn on of hers. She enjoys it - she enjoys sex period and yes, is unapologetic about that - but it’s not like hiding away, the thrill of getting caught has ever really, well, done it for her. 

Turns out, she thinks maybe she’s just been doing it wrong all these years. 

Her breath catches as he thrusts his fingers inside her, her hands clenching on the wall. She’s going to chip a nail and good God she can’t care. It’s been too long since she’s been here, since she’s felt this and she cannot wait. She can’t. 

Her case had run over. Her plane had been delayed. Her suitcase is stored in this damn coatroom somewhere because she did not have time to do anything else with it before Derek and Savannah’s long-awaited wedding. She should have had three days, three days to get this out of their systems, the reunion and the requisite 24-hour sex marathon that tends to follow her stateside visits. 

Maybe that’s why she’d barely resisted when he’d shoved her back into the coat room. Maybe that’s why she’s biting her lip, skirt around her hips, his mouth against the back of her neck. God, fixing her hair is going to be a nightmare. She thinks it’ll be worth it too. 

"Come on, sweetheart. We don’t have time."

Like she doesn’t know that. She growls, manages to drag together the tatters of her brain enough to speak. “So stop teasing.”

Still, she moans softly when he pulls his fingers from her, arches her back when she hears the buckle of his belt, the fastenings of his pants. Then he’s there again, pressed against her from heels to thighs, slipping between her soaked folds. This time she sighs. 

A moment later he’s slipping into her, everything stretching so wonderfully, one sticky hand on her hip, the other wrapped around to her stomach. 

"Emily."

She laughs, low and throaty. She never really makes a secret of how much she wants him anymore - she’d almost died, okay? It really puts the universe into perspective - but it always gives her so much more of a thrill when he’s not subtle about it either. 

He doesn’t waste time. He uses his grip on her hip for leverage, slides in and out of her body with that beautiful friction that would have her moaning loud and long if she weren’t so aware that they’re in a fucking closet - need trumped propriety and she does not give a shit about what Derek’s going to say when they get out. As it is, she gasps and bites down on her lip, lets her eyes flutter as she pushes back against his every inward thrust. It doesn’t take them long for their rhythm to speed up, for her to be using a hand to muffle her own sounds. He merely adds to the pleasure when he the hands splayed against her stomach slips lower. His fingers are deft and skilled and she tumbles over the edge not long after. 

When she focuses again, he’s slumped against her back, obviously spent. She shifts, sighs at the emptiness as he pulls out of her. Then she’s reaching for her bag, for the tissues inside. 

"You planned this?" he asks, even as he accepts the wipes. 

"Well Agent Hotchner, I never," she replies, attempts to fix her dress and get a hold of herself again. She feels blissful, like she’s floating. And the night isn’t over yet. 

Still, he snorts as he goes about cleaning himself up. “Wonder who’ll do this at our wedding.” 

Her breath catches, heart leaping. They haven’t talked about it, permanence. They’ve talked about other trips, meeting in Berlin or Madrid, Paris and even cities in Canada, but never about anything more. “Sorry?”

He looks up at her, just a glance because really, they can’t waste any more time back here. “Our wedding.”

"We’re getting married?" 

He levels her with such an exasperated look she wants to laugh, like she’s the one who has been totally dense all this time. And maybe she has been, but it’s not like marriage is actually a viable option when they live in two different countries. 

"Eventually." 

That settles in her heart, her mind, her blood. The idea of being married to this man, taking on everything that comes with him. She shivers pleasantly. 

"We’ll talk about it," she agrees, like it isn’t the future and the rest of her life and part of her dreams all welling up in four simple words. Or maybe two. Like everything isn’t coming up roses right now and she can actually breathe around the idea. 

Right now, they have a reception to return to. 

(They talk about it later, into the disgustingly early hours of the morning, in a hotel room above the reception hall. They talk about marriage and logistics and all of the nitty gritty details. 

They don’t figure anything out. 

Nothing except,  _yes_.)


	8. Dentiss - trying to get pregnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt. Cait'verse.

"Thank you, Doctor Welker. I’ll make the call." 

Emily pulls the phone away from her ear, presses the little button to end the call and stares at the blank screen. She’s pregnant. Actually and honestly pregnant. Not just a positive home test, but actually doctor-approved pregnant. 

The problem is, it shouldn’t be possible. And not because they are meticulous with birth control. They’re not. They haven’t been since their wedding.

It’s because of Nawada. 

_She’s going to die. That’s the feeling she’s going to remember when she wakes up in the hospital four days from now. The complete and utter knowledge that she’s finally been killed on the job, died in the line of action. Everything hurts, literally everything. She’s been battered around, beaten and while she’s put up a good fight, the ragged table leg through her lower abdomen tells her she hasn’t been the winner of this little match._

_And when she does wake up in that hospital, Easter at her side, he’s the one to give her the run down of her injuries, the extent of the damage, and the news that she’ll never bear children. She tells him it’s okay. She’s given up on having kids anyway._

There’s just so much damage, the doctors had eventually told her. No way an egg would be able to implant itself in her uterus long enough to even know she’s pregnant. Yet here she is, on the balcony of their French villa having just received the confirmed news. 

She makes herself stop, think; makes herself take a deep breath so she doesn’t panic. Seven weeks, the doctor had said. Seven weeks ago they’d been in the Bahamas, Ian recovering from a mission that had left him with seven stitches in his side. She’d just come back from tracking down and obliterating a human trafficking ring, she remembers, desperate and hating the fact that she had to do all the work. She remembers wanting Ian to pin her down, to take her and make her feel it. The stitches had thrown a wrench into her plan. 

_"Jesus, Love."_

_Emily bites his hip, her hand holding him down lest he break his stitches open. Again. She does not relish having to be the one to repair them after the last time. But she can’t help herself. She wants him, wants this and she will not be denied._

_It’s all coiled beneath her skin, this need and desperation to have him inside her with every waking breath and while she wishes with every piece of her heart and soul that he was better, that he could press her down into the mattress and make her fly, she knows she has to make do._

_So she climbs on top of him, straddles him and takes him inside, revelling in the way their groans mix. He’s perfect inside of her, this man she never expected to find, a love she isn’t supposed to have and doesn’t always feel like she deserves. And even though he shouldn’t, even though she made him promise on a rather vivid description of the hell she’d rain down on him if he disobeyed, Ian bucks up into her, gives her the extra push and sends her over the edge keening._

And now….

Well, now she’s looking at the consequences, isn’t she? A miracle and consequences and…

What the hell is she thinking? Pregnant, with her job? How the hell is she supposed to be able to shoot a man in cold blood while growing a child? How the hell is she supposed to be able to handle hand-to-hand when she has to constantly protect her mid-section. 

God, what if she loses the baby?

"There you are."

She flinches. They’re set for dinner, she knows, yet she stands on the balcony in essentially her pool wrap, nowhere close to presentable for dinner on the town. But it isn’t until he wraps his arms around her that she realizes she’s shaking too, trembling in fear and trepidation. They have not talked about kids; they don’t talk about kids. How could they think about bringing a life into the world when they’re both responsible for so much death? 

"Emily?"

And now there’s this. Now she has to face this. 

"Love, you’re shaking."

"Not your love," she says, but it has no heat, no spark. She feels the gentle press of his mouth to her neck, but he doesn’t try and make her face him. And maybe it’s that, the fact that he knows not to push her when she’s anguished, that has her sucking in a deep and determined breath. 

"I’m pregnant." 

(It’s touch and go in the middle, too many doctors appointments and more bed rest than she literally ever wants to deal with again. But in the end there’s a beautiful squalling infant that Ian can’t help but hold, touch, and she’s not much better. 

Caitriona, he tells her. Cait. 

Their own little baby Cait.) 


	9. Years'verse AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Hotchniss. Maybe early years verse. Hotch coming home from a case Emily hasn't gone on. Arrives home late when Emily's already asleep. Wakes her up for sex. Seduces her even though she kind of just wants to snuggle.

The door creaks and Emily groans, seriously debating banging her head against the wall until she can get more than three hours of sleep in a row. But the footsteps that follow are heavier, the thump definitely not the way Katie has a habit of knocking herself over. 

Oh, thank God, he’s finally home. 

It has been a tough three weeks without him. Even with her mother and his trading off days they hang out at the Hotchner home, and the evenings Pen uses as an excuse to bring Gabi over and work from the home office, Emily feels like her own children have run her ragged. It doesn’t help that the latest edition to her family is four months old and seems to have a very loose definition of ‘sleep’.

“Sweetheart.” 

She sighs as she cuddles into the pillow, shivers in the very deliberate stroke of her arm. A moment later her eyes pop open. No. God, please, no. 

“Aaron.”

His hand slips up her arm, cups her neck, tilts her face until he can kiss her. There’s nothing sweet about it, nothing demure. It’s heat and want and everything Emily really does not want right now. But as he hand comes up to grip his bicep she can feel the tension in him, still smell the gunpowder on his suit and finds herself sighing. 

“You need a shower.”

“Come with me.”

She doesn’t want to. For one thing, Seth’ll be up in - she glances at the alarm clock - twenty minutes, and that hopes that AJ hasn’t heard her father come home or that Katie doesn’t have nightmares. Again. 

And God, she just wants to sleep. 

But he’s insistent and when she finally makes her eyes focus, there are stress lines all over his face, his shoulders are almost up by his ears and Emily knows that he needs this. 

So, yes, she would very much prefer to sleep for the next twenty minutes before she has to deal with her son and really, now that he’s home she just wants to wrap her arms around him and hold on, but marriage, she knows is a compromise. 

And he always makes it up to her. 

So she stumbles from the bed, literally and metaphorically, and he catches her against his chest. 

“Hey, whoa.”

“Fine,” she murmurs into his neck, presses her mouth against his pulse point. They’re down to nineteen minutes now. She’ll have to pull out all the stops. 

She shoves him gently towards the ensuite, yanks her sleep shirt, that doubles as his t-shirt because she’d done laundry and the pillow no longer smells like him, over her head. With Seth’s baby monitor in one hand, she takes his tie in the other and gives him a thorough, sleepy kiss. 

“Strip,” she orders as she reaches for the shower, flips on the water, sets the baby monitor on the counter. 

He wants to argue. She can see it. It doesn’t take a genius to see how tired she is. But there’s want in his face too, a dangerous twist of his mouth and a darkness in his eyes. 

“Be chivalrous another time. Do you need this?”

He’d better. He woke her up for this. She may actually kill him, except then she’d still be a single mother and-

Her breath catches when his hands touch her bare skin. Callouses she’s so intimately familiar with trace the scars on her skin, the line of her spine. Were she more awake and energetic she’d let him keep going, but they don’t have that kind of time and she doesn’t have that kind of focus. 

So she turns, weaves her fingers through his hair and tugs him gently in for a kiss. She uses the momentum to pull him into the shower stall and under the spray. When his hair is washed, she lathers up her hands and tries for a coy smile. 

“Sweetheart.”

She hums a little, presses her mouth to his shoulder, tries to make it reassuring and, well, everything else as she lets her hands trail down his sides in the way she knows he likes. His hand tangles in the damp fall of her hair and he tilts her face towards his. 

“Sweetheart, can you do this?”

She hums as she lets her hands trail lower, as she slides them in until she has him in her grip. He’s achingly hard, already anxious for this, maybe her, maybe the tension that still holds him stiff. She reaches up to kiss him as her hands trail in, as she takes him in her soapy hands. She slips her thumb over the head, watches in a weird, absent, sleepy way as his pupils dilate, as his hands slip down to grip her hips. His body lists forward, into hers and she nudges him back, presses him against the wall as she gets her hands working in earnest. 

His head tips back against the tile and she lets her mouth play at his neck, rests more of her weight against him. A sleepy handjob is not what he wants, she knows that, but she’s also pretty sure it’s all she can give him for the moment. So she tries to focus, twists her hand and cups his balls, strokes and plays and presses her teeth into his pulse point…

He takes her mouth instead of crying out, his groan vibrating against his tongue. She hums at him as she slows her strokes, her hands soothing now, rather than arousing. The tension’s leaking out of his shoulders with every breath and she mentally pats herself on the back. 

Then his hands reach for her. 

“No,” she says into his neck, can already feel the sleep tugging at her. 

“Emily-”

“No,” she repeats, because while she genuinely likes that he hates having an orgasm without her, she just doesn’t have it in her. She’s never been so thankful to hear Seth’s cry in her life. 

“Bottle time.” She kisses him again, tries to show him she’s perfectly fine with just  _going back to bed_. “I’ll get him. You get some sleep.”

She gets out before he can argue, takes her son downstairs to heat a bottle. Once she’s tucked him back in, she returns to the bedroom to find her husband passed out, face down in his pillow. She smiles to herself and climbs back in, lifts the arm he’s splayed out towards her side of the bed and tucks herself beneath it. 

Oh, she thinks as she settles down, as she curls into him and his comforting scent. Oh this. 

* * *

The first thing she registers as she is utterly yanked from sleep is the arch of her back and the gasp in her lungs. It’s followed almost immediately by thick, hot pleasure and a choked off groan, her hand slipping beneath the sheets to find her husband’s head. Her hips are rocking against his mouth and her mouth opens in a breathless ‘o’. 

He slides two fingers in, gentle, oh so gentle, pumps them a few times as he wraps his mouth around her clit. Her free hand clenches the sheets as he pushes her higher and higher, sending her crashing into a beautiful early morning orgasm. 

His mouth has trailed to her hip when she finally catches her breath, not really trying to seduce her, just settling there. “Morning.”

Her skin shivers as the slow cadence of his voice shimmers over her skin. “Uh. It is now. God, it’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home,” he answers against her stomach. “I’m sorry. For last night.”

She strokes her hand through his hair and sighs. “No, I’m sorry. You needed me.”

He laughs against her stomach, leaves her twitching and gasping. “You needed sleep.”

“Mm, and I got it. Wait.” Her eyes pop open. She doesn’t remember getting up during the night, doesn’t remember cuddling Katie through a nightmare of soothing Seth back to sleep. “The kids-”

“Are fine. AJ and Katie are watching Treehouse and I put Seth back down after his morning bottle. And his 2am bottle. And his 4am bottle.”

She blinks at him. “You just got home.”

His forehead presses against her stomach, the bit of pregnancy she still carries with her. Her hand strokes his neck. “You took care of me last night.”

She laughs. It’s corny because well… she kind of had, then she kind of _had_. “Are you making it up to me?”

His mouth presses against her stomach again, her hips, her thighs. She shifts her hips, arches a little against him, into him. “Until the kids come and find us,” he finally gets out. 

“Oh,” she says on a breath. “Yes.”

(He wrings three orgasms from her before AJ wants breakfast and takes one more from her when they climb in the shower afterwards. 

It really is good to have him home.)


End file.
